The Fifth Assassin Read Online Free PDF Page B

the President already knows how this ends. So as we rush out of the stacks and the automatic lights pop on in our wake, I can’t shake the feeling that everything we’re now doing…
    … is exactly what the President wants.

5
    T here’s a band of yellow police tape covering the side door. Tot’s too old to duck under it. He tugs it aside, letting it flap in the air like the tail of a kite. I follow slowly behind him, into the scene of the crime.
    As we enter St. John’s Church, it looks like an old colonial house filled with office furniture.
    “Y’mind signing in for me?” a friendly voice calls out.
    On our right, a guy with tightly cropped blond hair and an athletic build that stretches his dark suit approaches us with such an authoritative stride that even Tot takes a step back.
    “We’re here to see Hayden Donius,” Tot says, though I don’t recognize the name.
    “Just sign in. Clipboard’s over there,” he says, pointing to an antique side table, his arm muscles flexing from the motion. “Here’s a pen; don’t steal it,” he jokes, shoving a blue-and-orange University of Virginia pen into Tot’s hands.
    In a blur, he’s gone, leaving Tot and me alone with…
    “Hayden Donius…” a tall man with a soft voice and an out-of-date, gray, three-piece suit says. With an anxious both-hands handshake, he introduces himself as the executive director of the church. “And you’re the friend of—”
    Tot nods, cutting him off. The two men exchange a long glance, and I remember what Tot said when he first invited me into the Culper Ring. Their membership is small, but their friends are many.
    “I-I truly… we appreciate you coming…” Hayden says, his voice shaky as Tot breezes past the side table, ignoring the sign-in sheet and eyeing the wide window on our right.
    I see what Tot’s looking at. Through the window, past the barren trees of Lafayette Park, there’s a perfect view of the city’s most famous landmark. The White House. Home of President Orson Wallace.
    “Pretty darn close to the murder,” I say with a glance.
    Tot nods, well aware of how fishy this is—and how familiar.
    Two months ago, it was Clementine. Today, it’s Marshall. Two murderers, both from my same tiny hometown, and both this close to the President of the United States. It gets even worse when I think about how fast they let Marshall out of jail even though he’s supposedly a murder suspect. Even if Tot didn’t tell me the President was gunning for me, how many people have pull like that?
    “We should get started,” Tot says, knowing that the only way to stop the President is to prove what he’s really doing.
    Leading us inside, Hayden looks tired, like he’s been up all night.
    I glance around. There are barely six offices in the entire church. This place is small. The rector who had his throat slashed wasn’t just some coworker. He was Hayden’s friend.
    “Sorry, fellas,” a young black policeman says as we approach the office at the end of the main hall. “Detectives said no one gets inside until they’re back from lunch and the techs are done.”
    “But that’s my office,” Hayden protests. “I need to be able to do my job.”
    The officer nods but doesn’t budge. “They say
no one
, they mean
no one
. I don’t make the rules until they give me the suit and tie.”
    He waits for us to argue, but from our spot near the doorway, we can see everything inside: Two evidence technicians—one Asian, one bald—flit around the office, making notes and taking a few final photographs. In the corner, a few yellow plastic evidence placards are marked with a directional arrow that shows the blood spatter sprayed across the bookcase and the window. That’s where the killer slit the rector’s throat.
    It’s all in the police report that Mac got for us on the way here. One shot in the back; throat slashed in the front. Hayden heads upthe hallway toward the actual church and pews, but it’s not until we reach